


Twenty Three

by IneffableNightmare



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Crowley (Supernatural) on Human Blood, Demons, Hurt Crowley, Kidnapping, M/M, Rescue, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 19:42:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17587148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableNightmare/pseuds/IneffableNightmare
Summary: Crowley is captured and Castiel comes to what is a late rescue.





	Twenty Three

_Day Six.  
_  
"Six." He thought. "Time to start counting on the second hand."  
A day Crowley had been dreading. He planned to be free before the days were countable on his other hand. He'd been unsuccessful- to say the least.   
  
Chains around his wrists and ankles were beginning to become just that tad too awkwardly positioned. Light red bands imprinted in his skin where the cuffs held him. Light scratches along his neck where the chains wrapped themselves. His muscles had begun aching- the old chair much too restricting.   
  
_Day Nine.  
_  
"Nine." He thought. "Nearly run out of fingers to count."   
The Devil's trap in bright red paint that circled him was the most colourful thing in the room. Dark and secluded, the place resembled an old prison cell. Truth be told, he didn't know where he was. All he knew was the place was isolated, dark, and the blades they used hurt. A lot.   
  
What were they doing it for? That, he couldn't figure out. Well. He could. He was the King of Hell. Not the most popular ruler, these demons didn't seem to think so in the least. The slits in his skin told him so. And the water they were feeding him wasn't water. It was a slight tinge of red, but he couldn't stop it.   
_  
Day Twelve.  
_  
"Twelve." He thought. "Double digits."  
Escape was looking doubtful. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles were beginning to become more of a problem. The red marks had become wounds. Shallow, wide open wounds that persisted to budge open with each movement. Metal scraping skin, drying with blood.   
  
The demon's inflicting of pain had grown too. The blade prodded further, opened more skin, explore more of his flesh. A persistent thing, chipping away at more then just the vessel. The demons knew their stuff- their pain infliction was driven by knowledge.   
  
_Day Fourteen.  
_  
"Fourteen." He thought. "Unless I'm mistaken..."  
He could be mistaken. Who knew at that point. Fourteen wasn't a nice number, two more days and he'd reach his second hand for a second time. Unless the demons cut it off first.   
  
They had a strange fascination with his hands, actually. The soft skin of his palms was one of their favourite places to sketch with a blade. It was particularly sensitive skin. He'd figured out what the water was contaminated with- human blood. He could feel it thread through his veins.   
_  
Day Seventeen.  
_  
"Seventeen." He thought. "...is it seventeen?"   
The demons had been kind enough to put a slit through each finger for everyday he sat in that chair. But his hands were in agony, he couldn't tell which finger had the latest cut on it. The human blood had worked, he couldn't extract himself from the vessels even if by some miracle he could remove the warding.  
  
The crimson that fell from the chair he sat on hit the puddle of blood pooling on the floor with a rhythmic, never ending _drip_. It played on a constant loop, playing over and over only to be interrupted when the demons returned to tease and torture him further. Then there was only threats and his own hisses of pain.   
_  
Day Nineteen.  
_  
"Nine...teen?" He thought. "...maybe?"  
One finger left with only one slit. Had to be the nineteenth day. The other nine fingers were what he'd consider as flayed. At the rate they sliced his skin, he was surprised they weren't removing a layer of skin for every day he sat in that chair.   
  
That damned chair that made his muscles scream. His arms- waterfalls of red. Any movements only creating tidal waves, no escapes. Escape was a foreign word, it had no meaning anymore. There was no escape, only metal slicing skin.   
_  
Day Twenty-One.  
_  
"Twenty-one." He thought. "Third week."  
This he was only sure of because of the way the demons had told him so. Little of what they said entered his numb brain, everything hurt so much that he couldn't even process thoughts, never mind listen.   
  
He could see the blood pool without even trying. There must've been none left in his vessel, not at the rate the pool was expanding. He could see himself in the bottom of his barely opened eyes, clothes soaked through with crimson and open wounds patterning themselves randomly across everywhere. Not a millimetre of skin was left untainted. He was dying in that damn chair.   
  
_Day Twenty-Three  
_  
"Twenty-thr....." he could barely think.   
All he knew what that his eyes were screaming to close. He was beyond aware if they closed, they weren't going to open ever again. The sight before him was so horrific he wanted nothing more then to slam his eyes closed. The vessel, the wounds which he could feel. He wanted them gone, it wanted it all gone.   
  
Then his eyes slipped shut- barley. A light caught his attention. Bright- blinding. Then it was gone. As the room's darkness grew and Crowley's eyes began to slip shut, something landed in his lap. Black, sleek, light rippling from its defined features. A feather.   
  
_Then it was gone.  
_  
As was everything. For what could've been years was just darkness. Abyss. Void. A lingering nothingness. Not thoughts or sounds, no existence. Just. Black. Then eventually sounds. Not sentences, nor words. Unintelligible, as if there was some sort of interference. Then as time past, sounds became clearer. More distinguishable. Then suddenly, all at once, everything was back.   
  
Light, sound, smell, taste, all of it. One big rush of senses. The light was awful, a sudden stream of some warm coloured bulb that flickered randomly and unexpectedly. It was quiet, not deadly so. The place smelt of damp, yet also a strange sense of stale. Trees rustled in the wind, a bird screeched outside, sending a jolt through him. The jolt was pure agony. He suddenly remembered it all, he placed a reason for the taste of blood on his tongue.   
  
He lay on a table, wooden and old. The material poked and prodded luckily only the smallest of wounds. But the pain of splinters were nothing compared to the rest. Then he remembered: the feather.   
_  
Such a beautiful thing, where had it come from?  
_  
Crowley's head angled, sending pain racing through his skin. His eyes, still adjusting to the light and the horrific wallpaper of different shaded stripes, caught glimpse of something familiar. A trench coat hanging over a chair, beige and stained.   
"Oh good, you're awake."  
Words spoken so casually, yet, with a hint of concern. Crowley refused to recognise the low, gruff voice. _Castiel? It couldn't be._ Yet as the person approached, his eyes met those killer blues ones- it was definitely Castiel. But before he could speak, "what were you thinking?! Trailing those demons, what do you think you are? Invincible?"  
Had Crowley been able to move, he would've physically recoiled in surprised.   
"They fed you Human blood! You're far from invincible now! You're just like any other human, impulsive and stupid as shit!"  
A curse leaving Cas' lips was surprise enough. But Crowley looked at the angel- hair ruffled too much and stubble across his jaw. He'd been stressed because of something. The bags under his eyes, his ruined clothes.   
  
So Crowley tried to speak. Tried. His voice raspy and failing. Yet, managed to get out an entire few sentences.  
"Why did you come after me?" He tried to sit up, coughing and spluttering up blood, "Did you save me just so you could insult me? How cute. Well go ahead feathers! Kick me while I'm down." He pushed Castiel away when he tried to assist in his attempt to sit upright. He got there eventually, pain unbearable. Castiel's gaze set shivers down Crowley's spine. He was worried, the angel was angry.   
"Why..?" He breathed, "why do you think?! I saved you because I care about you! I care about you, you ignorant ass!"   
  
Crowley could only just see that Castiel's eyes had pooled with tears that hadn't breached the banks of his eyelids just yet. He could see blood- god knows whose- swimming in the tears, a light red stain to them He can't tell if they're sad tears, angry tears or happy tears. All he knew, is that he felt like he was on fire. He winced.  
  
"I'll try to heal you.." He reached to tap Crowley's forehead-  
"Don't!" Crowley whispered, barely able to move his throat "I deserve the pain."  
The sadness that hit Cas' eyes was obvious. "I'm healing you. No debate."  
The sense of relief Crowley was expecting never met him. He felt Cas' fingers meet his forehead but nothing else. He opened his eyes when he heard the hiss. It was low, an attempt to be discreet. But it wasn't. Crowley opened his eyes to see Cas flinch back, patterns of red climbing his veins and soaking in before disappearing. Cas' eyes wandered to Crowley's- terrified.   
"How..." the words barely left his lips, "how are you still alive?"  
  
Crowley struggled to grasp that he was, indeed, alive. All he felt was pain, soul-shredding pain. Castiel looked like he was debating something but deciding against it- his eyes thoughtful and dark. Castiel approached him, sliding the jacket from his shoulders, followed by a slow attempt to unbutton his shirt. He pushed it just off his shoulders, not managing to go any further without causing immense pain. The blood had dried into the clothes, it was a miracle the jacket could even come off.   
  
Castiel hovered his hand over the wounds, light shimmering from his palm. Crowley felt no change, despite seeing the light himself. Instead, Cas' nose scrunched, red patterns crawled his his arm again. His hissed, stepped back, defeated. There was too much pain, even for an angel. Crowley felt so incredibly sorry, but he couldn't say it. He couldn't say anything. He'd lost his voice, his thoughts, he was empty.   
  
Castiel approached again, had he have had the energy, Crowley would've said it would have been a waste of his grace's power. But he didn't tap Crowley's forehead or any of the wounds in an attempt to channel his grace into them. Instead, his two fingers traced along the ruptured skin. It stung, so much so Crowley could barley keep quiet. But it left a tingle after it that didn't hurt as much. Castiel's got close to the edge of the table, a mere few centimetres from Crowley. His palms slowly taking Crowley's cheeks, angling his face up to the light. He ran his finger along a cut that trailed from his cheekbone, down his jaw, down to his collarbone.    
  
A sudden adrenaline ran through Crowley, he didn't deserve it. Castiel's gestures, much too kind, much too sweetly innocent. The most calming thing he'd experienced in over three weeks. Castiel didn't stop, he kept moving from wound to wound, lips brushing across his shoulders, down his chest. Anywhere he claimed was broken, his touch would fix. Crowley soaked it up, feeling the safest he had in along time. He'd have to heal like any other human but Castiel's hands, so soft, so gentle, seemed to numb the wounds.   
  
When the trail of injury lead Castiel's touch back up Crowley's jaw, the two's eyes met. Instant contemplation. Crowley's hand slid to the back of Cas' neck, pulling him forward. He moved his legs open, allowing Castiel to stand against the table between him, Crowley's knees resting against Castiel's waist. His arm stung, good lord above his arm stung. But he didn't regret it even for a second. He pulled Cas' head down at just the right angel to meet his lips. Cut, stinging and bleeding lips met the angel's but neither of them minded. The human blood, the pain, Cas had cured, it was all driving him now. The kiss was beyond messy, blood and dirt and grime tainting the whole thing. But god- it was pure beauty.   
  
Beauty Crowley felt he did not deserve. He wasn't worth the angels compliance, healing he could not repay. Twenty-three days of capture- how disgraceful. Crowley's hand stayed on the back of Cas' neck, holding him exactly where he was. The both of them, foreheads against each other, breathing in the same heaving unison.   
  
_Twenty-three days worth of pain, ending in utter bliss._

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in July of 2017 during a really shitty time. My dear homie came up with the concept and this was the result. So shout out to you homie, for everything xx


End file.
